Don't Overthink
by Pessimist
Summary: "Sherlock, just... don't overthink it." For the world's only consulting detective, that's easier said than done. TFP resolution.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I've never tried my hand at a Sherlock story before… but I'm being super original and taking a stab at a resolution to "the phone call."

 **Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ isn't mine.

* * *

 **Don't Overthink**

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

"So… what? Still don't want to talk about it?" John's only response was a sort of sullen silence and the sputtering of a candle as it went out on the coffee table. "Oh, for – you've been sitting in that chair for four days now. No violin, no clients, no… shooting at the wall or hiding body parts in the fridge…" John was sure he'd come home to several unpleasant surprises since he'd invited Sherlock to stay with him while 221B underwent structural repairs, but… "Sherlock, you haven't showered or shaved in days."

The detective drew several distracted fingertips across the charcoal stubble littering his chin but otherwise gave no indication he'd heard anything.

The physician stood, giving his friend one last chance to speak up, but he may as well have started a conversation with the kettle. "Fine," he stated simply, thoroughly exasperated. "I've got to go pick up Rosie. We'll talk later." John pulled on his coat and made his way to the front door. He had just turned the handle and pulled when Sherlock finally spoke.

"I'm… not sure I know how to explain what I'm…" he paused, searching for the word, " _feeling_."

Dr. Watson's foot halted on the landing as he heard the expressionless sentence uttered. He sighed and turned back around, seeing the sheer frustration etched in the creases of Sherlock's concentrating face.

For a self-proclaimed genius, he sure was thick.

 _The dolt…_ John had only seen Sherlock exhibit this depressing behavior on one occasion before, and though he had always entertained a sort of childish fantasy featuring a Sherlock and Irene Adler romance, it was different now that the detective was actually on the verge of an emotional breakthrough with a different woman. The doctor realized what was happening as soon as Sherlock had put the lid back on that coffin and wondered how he could have missed the signs for so long. Opting for some gentle prodding to help the erudite reach the same conclusion, he asked, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, eyes unfocused. "If I knew what I meant, I wouldn't have told you that I didn't know."

John bit back an annoyed remark and tried a different tactic. "Well… what're you thinking, then?" he prompted, though of course he already knew the answer.

"Molly Hooper." The name came out softly, and from anyone else it would have sounded wistful.

"What about Molly?"

The detective's eyes strayed to the arm of his chair where his mobile had sat silently for the last four days. Well, except for several unanswered calls and texts from Mycroft, Lestrade, and John himself… but silent from the person John presumed Sherlock desperately wanted to hear from, even if he'd never admit it. "Hands…" he trailed off for a moment, as if remembering the way those slim hands had clutched her mobile phone. "I never noticed how small her hands are."

John allowed himself a private smile that the usually astute detective failed to notice. "Hm." Non-committal, but encouraging. Soon enough the words would flow. John just had to carefully chip away the dam.

"There's always something…" Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and steepled his fingers under his chin, evidently escaping back into his mind palace.

Normally not keen to interrupt Sherlock's mental sorting, this time John felt reluctant to drop the subject and wait another several hours before the detective decided to speak again. "You know, Sherlock – "

"John, tell me what to do."

John stopped, confused by the unexpected reply. "Wait, do about what?"

"You know 'about what'!"

"What, about Molly?" John blinked – Sherlock rarely asked for help so openly.

"Yes, that! And whatever… _this_ is." He flourished his hand dismissively, which John interpreted to be a reference to the festering ball of emotion Sherlock was currently wrestling. The consulting detective looked at his friend's shocked face when he didn't immediately get a response and rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, I've seen the looks you've been giving me, a mixture of pity and realization and the rare 'I know something you don't know.'"

John bit his tongue again, determined to steer the conversation into an actual delicate discussion about feelings and avoid childish banter altogether. One misstep, and Sherlock would shut down completely. He closed the front door and settled down in his usual chair, giving his stricken friend his full attention. He folded his hands on his knees and fixed Sherlock with a penetrating stare. "First, Sherlock, I think I owe you an apology."

The detective finally made eye contact with the doctor for the first time in days. He looked only momentarily confused before responding in his usual manner, "Don't worry about it, John, I know it sometimes takes you a while to catch up."

Now he was just being difficult. "Do you always have to be such a – " John struggled but managed to regain his composure, taking a calming inhale through his nose. Someone had to be the adult. "Remember on your birthday, when I tried to get you to take a chance with Irene Adler?"

Sherlock looked caught off guard by the question. "What could she possibly have to do with this?" The pair spared a reflexive glance at the phone on the arm of Sherlock's chair that chose that precise moment to buzz, but the tension in the room melted quickly when they saw it was merely a spam email.

"I stand by what I said, that a real relationship with someone would be good for you, but I'm sorry because I said all those things about the wrong woman."

At that moment Sherlock's usually calculated façade betrayed him, and his eyes widened momentarily, as if ashamed his feelings had begun to leak through the mask that had held them back for so long. But he recovered quickly. "Oh? And to whom would those words apply?"

John couldn't help a little half-smile from forming in response to his friend's overly-formal question, a clear sign that Sherlock was about to stick a toe out of his comfort zone. "You know who, Sherlock." The doctor nodded pointedly at the phone resting harmlessly on the detective's armrest, and he saw the other man's eyes follow his.

Again, silence.

John sighed. "Just…" Just… what? Apologize? Explain the circumstances, feelings and all? Telling Sherlock to act, to _call_ Molly or talk to her… maybe it was too soon for action; the depth of those emotions needed sorting out first. He needed to be coaxed gently. He needed to walk before he could run. "Just… tell me why you smashed that coffin, Sherlock." They both spared a glance down at Sherlock's bruised and scabbed hands at that point. All the turmoil could be pinpointed by that brief moment in which Sherlock Holmes, normally unfazed by death and the most horrific of crimes, finally lost control. If he could verbalize those thoughts, perhaps he stood a chance at salvaging the situation.

But it didn't seem as though Sherlock was in any hurry to respond. He sat so deep in contemplation that anyone else might have thought he'd fallen asleep; John wasn't even sure he'd heard the question. A full eleven minutes passed before the detective finally decided to speak. He folded his hands snugly in his lap, leaned forward slightly, and began in a calculated manner.

"As you're well aware, until quite recently, I hadn't wasted much time thinking about friendships. Then I met you and Mary... and later, Rosie. Your family filled a gap in my life I didn't realize I had. And Molly…" He stopped and licked his lips, choosing his next words very carefully, not wanting to reveal too much too soon. "Molly was… always present. Unconditionally. I must've started to appreciate that fact once I realized how valuable a friendship could be. Of course, she was frustratingly obvious in her affections toward me at first – " Sherlock faltered at John's "not good" cough. "Anyway," he continued, a bit derailed. "Once she was finally able to overcome those feelings of attraction and be herself around me, we settled into a… comfortable companionship, and she helped me become a more understanding and respectful person. I couldn't hide myself from her. She knows me better than anyone, and I realized I _wanted_ to be around her more and more. I think I thought of it as a distraction from perpetual boredom, at first. How good could another person be at deducing me? But before I knew it, the thrill wore off, and I found myself just simply comfortable in her presence." Sherlock looked like he felt the exact opposite at the moment, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and painfully aware of how vulnerable this conversation made him appear.

John sensed his friend's internal debate about whether or not to clam up at that point, so he offered a small encouraging nod, and Sherlock complied.

"Regardless of what that story suggests, I never entertained the idea of anything more with Molly Hooper, despite knowing that something about our relationship was different from the one you and I share. And then Eurus put me in that predicament. I knew forcing Molly to say those words would destroy whatever friendship we had established before I had time to form my own conclusions about the nature and implications of our relationship, and I realized I would miss her."

"I'm sure she'd still help you out at Bart's whenever you need it," John said, hoping his friend would fall for his feigned ignorance and continue talking.

Sherlock shook his head slowly, a pained expression on his face. "No… not like that. You know that's not what I meant." He paused, uncertain. "Small things, her familiar smile, the bad jokes, the _horrendous_ fashion sense… I had taken them for granted for so many years, and they would all be gone. And who could blame her? She… put up with a lot of mistreatment on my behalf, even if I wasn't always aware of what I was doing. A normal person can handle only so much emotional disregard," he said morosely, looking truly ashamed. "I found myself full of regret after hanging up the phone. Regret that in seven years I'd never given myself the opportunity to fall in love with her."

It was John's turn to be silent, albeit with shock. He'd always thought of himself as a hopeless romantic, but nothing he'd ever read or heard sounded more poignant than the words uttered by a self-proclaimed sociopath. Finally he let out a long exhale, beginning to understand why Sherlock had needed so long to gather his thoughts. "Wow…" He ran a hand through his hair. "So… this is out of character." He hadn't expected the words to come out so easily.

"Yes, well, I haven't felt particularly like myself for the last few days."

"You love her then?"

"Love is the product of a chemical reaction in the brain, John," Sherlock responded, returning briefly to his normal self. Just as John was about to retort, Sherlock continued. "And if it manifests as me already missing the scent of her soap as she walks past or the way she bites her lip when taking a scalpel to a cadaver, knowing I'll never experience them in the same amiable way as before, then… I suppose that explains why I said _those_ words to her twice."

John had completely forgotten about that. In the heat of the moment, it had been difficult to focus on anything other than stopping that horrible timer. Sherlock would have gotten Molly's compliance after the first, "I love you." There really was no need to say it a second time. Perhaps it was the intense duress that caused Sherlock's emotion to escape him in those final seconds.

"I should have listened to you, John. Thinking about all the missed opportunities over the years… The next time I find myself in this situation I'll be sure to heed your advice." The detective's lips quirked upward in a false smile, and he hoped to come off as optimistic, though both of them knew there'd never be another Molly Hooper.

Cruel tests aside, perhaps John really did owe Eurus some gratitude for knowing her brother so well. He had never seen Sherlock open up like this before, so humble and out of his depth, and he'd be damned if he didn't at least fight for his friend's happiness. "Sherlock," he began firmly, the seriousness in his tone forcing the detective to make solid and prolonged eye contact. "You _need_ to tell her." That was the only way for anyone to get any kind of closure.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his dark locks in exasperation. "I know this is terribly exciting for you, but there's not much point in trying to do anything about it now, is there?" He leaned back, steepled fingers back in place beneath his chin. The downtrodden look on his face was utterly heartbreaking. "I doubt if she'd even give me the chance to explain. Mycroft has already taken it upon himself to debug her home and check for explosives, so I'm sure he has already offered her some sort of explanation."

"Wait, you – " The doctor gave his head a little shake as Sherlock monologued pessimistically ahead in a completely wrong direction, but John was not about to let this unheard-of chance slip through his friend's fingers. "Stop!" Sherlock looked a little startled by the outburst. "Just… stop. Whatever Mycroft told her, Molly needs to hear it from _you_. You're not giving her enough credit, Sherlock."

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes skeptically. "John, I forced a confession out of her, hung up without an explanation, and have said nothing to her since. Even _I_ know that's poor etiquette. There's no reason for her to listen to me now, let alone forgive me for taking so long to apologize."

"Yes, well that's…" John couldn't argue with the logic there, but there would be nothing gained from telling the detective that he should've asked for help before the tension escalated to the point it had. "Molly knows you. You said it yourself, she knows you better than anyone. She'll at least hear you out. Now," the urgency in his voice forced Sherlock to make eye contact again. " _Do_ you love her, Sherlock?"

"I…" John leaned forward so far in anticipation he almost fell off his chair. "… don't know."

"What do you mean you don't – "

"Fine, yes," he waved an impatient hand. "Maybe all the evidence suggests that I do, but if I'm not ready to admit it confidently to myself, I have no business bothering Molly with 'maybes.' I can't do that to her again, give her reason to doubt me. She's a lovely person, and she deserves someone who will never leave her uncertain of his affection for her. I… don't know if I can do that. Given the emotional abuse she's suffered at my hand, she has no reason to believe anything I tell her about how I feel."

The _thought_ Sherlock was putting into this… If that wasn't love, John didn't know what was, but he decided arguing over emotion wasn't the way to go – the detective was still struggling to understand his feelings. "Okay, then, Sherlock, let me ask you this: what've you got to lose by trying to talk to her?"

"Well, I…" Sherlock paused, struggling to find an excuse to avoid the conversation he knew he owed the pathologist, but John's argument made too much sense. What _did_ he have to lose? Worst-case scenario, he'd end up in the exact same situation he thought he was in now. "You're… right," he finally said, reluctant to admit he'd missed such easy, logical justification.

John allowed himself a proud smile. "I guess that does happen sometimes, then."

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. "I've never doubted your ability to wrestle matters of the heart. It's an area in which I'm terribly lacking, as you're well aware." Silence again, but only briefly. "Well then, no time like the present I suppose." Sherlock stood up abruptly, startling John in his chair. In a few long strides, he crossed to the other side of the room to retrieve the scarf he'd thrown angrily into the corner after they'd returned home from Sherrinford. He looped it about his neck and walked purposefully toward the closet.

"Um, sorry, what're you doing?" John asked, turning in his seat and observing in mild amusement as Sherlock tried and failed to tame his wild curls.

"What do you think? I'm going to see Molly," Sherlock responded, pulling his belstaff about his shoulders over the dressing gown he'd neglected to remove in his excitement. His hand was on the doorknob, sense of purpose renewed, when John spoke up.

"You can't go out like that!" John looked at his friend in disbelief and mild horror, taking in his unshaven face, rumpled pajama pants, and bare feet (with that one-track mind, he had no doubt the detective would have gone out without shoes if he hadn't been stopped). "She'll either think you're using again or have completely lost it. This is delicate, Sherlock, at least do yourself a favor and look presentable."

Sherlock dropped his hand and looked at his disheveled appearance in the wall-mounted mirror to his left for the first time since he'd arrived at John's house. "Ah, of course… you're right." Long fingers brushed against the bristles on his chin for the second time that day. But almost everything he owned at Baker Street had been reduced to ashes.

"Here, you can borrow something of mine," John said, reading his mind. Sherlock and John strode to the doctor's closet, and the former produced a handsome plum button down on a hanger.

"That's funny, John, I had a shirt almost exactly like this one." His eyes narrowed slightly in question.

John actually laughed a little at that. "I know. I suggest you wear it, though."

"Why's that?" The expression on his face suggested that the question was genuine.

"Huh, and I was sure you were always so deliberate about it… Guess I noticed something again that you didn't."

Sherlock made an impatient motion for him to spit it out.

"The way Molly looks at you in that shirt… this'll give you your best chance, trust me."

Sherlock looked skeptical, but shrugged and accepted the garment. A wash and a shave later, and he stood facing John on the landing. "John, I…" Sherlock suddenly found himself overwhelmed and settled on clearing his throat and saying a simple, "thank you."

John gripped Sherlock's shoulder and offered him an encouraging smile, understanding that a truer "thank you" had never been spoken. "Don't mention it." The detective had pulled the front door open by the time John remembered something else. "Sherlock?"

"What is it?"

"Just… don't overthink it."

Sherlock offered his friend a half-smirk, looking more himself than he had in days, and with a flourish of his belstaff turned and proceeded down the steps.

John looked wistfully at the closed door for a moment, hoping that the next time he saw Sherlock, the detective would have some good news to share. Gloom clouded his thoughts momentarily as he wished Mary could have been there to see she had been right about Sherlock and Molly all along.

Then his phone pinged. "Shit!" he cursed, realizing he was over thirty minutes late picking Rosie up from daycare.

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 **Author's Note:** This will be a three-part story, so stay tuned since the next chapter is already in the works! In the meantime, drop me a review if you like it so far!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter of this story. It really means a lot, and I'm glad people didn't think Sherlock was too out of character; I'm finding it really hard to keep him in character while still making it seem like he's undergoing an emotional transformation. Anyway, here we are with the anticipated part two. Hope you enjoy the read!

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Sherlock._

* * *

 **Don't Overthink**

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

Molly forced a smile in the bathroom mirror. Aside from the puffy, dark-circled red eyes and tear streaks staring back at her, it looked convincing enough, but inside she still felt raw and abused.

 _Doctor Hooper, for your own good, don't… overthink anything Sherlock says. You know better than anyone what he's like._

Those had been Mycroft's parting words after he and an unexplained band of men in black turtlenecks had scoured her house; they removed the hidden cameras in her kitchen before deeming it safe and debugged. It all happened so fast that Molly didn't even have time to ask what was going on. Mycroft must've felt exceptionally sorry for her that day. He'd even offered her a small comforting smile and an awkward squeeze on the shoulder – but not much in the way of an explanation – before driving off and leaving her with her own muddled thoughts.

She should know from experience the kind of trouble that came from reading into anything Sherlock did. In the seven years she'd known him, it had never ended well for her. "Don't overthink it," she said aloud to her grimacing reflection.

But that was easier said than done.

The past four days had been, for lack of a better word, torturous. After getting the dial tone from Sherlock, Molly had silently placed her phone back on the kitchen counter – tea preparation long forgotten – and moved numbly to her sitting room, where she powered on the television and sat staring unfocused at the talking newscasters. A dull ringing in her ears muffled the voices from the broadcast as she tried to understand what had just happened.

But it wasn't until evening that the tears started to fall, when she had finally processed the implications of that disastrous phone call.

 _"_ _I-I… I love you..."_

Molly gave her head a little shake in a futile attempt to silence the incessant echoing of that simple sentence inside her mind. The memory of the words stung hours and days later, and that first night, in her sleepless restless state, Molly knew she had lost him. Whether Sherlock wanted to continue their working relationship, pretending the unfortunate conversation had never happened, or went to great uncharacteristic lengths to apologize and explain the undoubtedly chaotic back story of the call while stating _yet again_ that he had no desire to dabble in romance (because, let's face it, those were the two most likely scenarios), Molly would not be able to face him professionally and maintain her composure. Everything was out in the open now, naked for all eyes to see. The damage to their friendship, which she had grown to accept and cherish, was irreparable, and Molly didn't see a way back. She knew forcing the false confession from him would hurt, but she underestimated just how much. If only she could make him un-say those words…

 _"_ _I love you."_

The next few days, still grief-stricken and hurt, Molly spent debating whether or not to contact Sherlock and at least get some closure. She tried to distract herself by cleaning her flat (it had never looked more spotless), watching telly, and going on long walks outdoors to clear her head. She even tried taking extra shifts at the morgue to focus on something else, but as soon as Mike Stamford saw how distressed and sleep-deprived she was after almost grabbing a contaminated scalpel by the pointy end, he sent her home with explicit directions to take whatever time she needed to sort out her personal life. However, well meaning as it was, Stamford's actions were probably counterproductive. Every minute alone brought her thoughts back to that phone conversation, catching her between a desire to reach out to Sherlock and a need to shut him out of her life completely before he had the chance to do anymore damage. Maybe she could forget about getting an explanation from him and convince herself to live with what little information she'd received over the past few days.

During his intrusion of her modest flat, Mycroft had explained in very vague terms the bare bones of the incident that had taken place at Sherrinford. Though still mostly in the dark and somewhat fearful of stumbling upon cameras in awkward places in her flat, Molly gathered that Sherlock had a forgotten genius of a sister who had made John and the Holmes brothers undergo a set of grueling psychological trials, one of which culminated in the phone call that had quickly upturned the pathologist's life. But the details… Molly had spent the days since Mycroft's unexpected visit creating hypothetical scenarios in her head, each more devastating than the last, in her attempts to justify what on Earth could have made Sherlock do something so cruel. And despite Mycroft's promise that Sherlock would explain everything and answer all her questions, she hadn't heard a peep from the consulting detective since he'd hung up.

Once, exhausted and angry for being treated so inconsiderately and being so underappreciated for one-sidedly maintaining the relationship for so many years, she typed out in a text, "I don't think we should see each other anymore," but she erased the message before sending it, losing her nerve once the ire had died down. Another time she typed out, "Can we talk?" Her finger hovered uncertainly over the "send" button before she finally decided to delete it. Half of her, the more hopeful and naïve half, waited optimistically for Sherlock to get in touch with her – a text, a call, a midnight visit as he was occasionally wont to do… _anything_ – but the more rational side of her dreaded that with each passing day, the chances of him reaching out diminished exponentially.

Even worse was knowing that he probably didn't even consider how detrimental his actions were to their relationship, that he'd keep taking her for granted and not understand why she wouldn't want to work with him anymore. Knowing him, he'd stroll into the morgue sometime in the next couple weeks and be surprised to see her burst into tears.

And that sequence of mental events had led Molly to where she was now, in a perpetual state of not knowing what to do, parked on her sofa and wallowing, wearing a set of obscenely pink pajamas. She scoffed and tossed her phone, which seemed to be permanently open to a blank text, onto the cushion adjacent to the one on which she sat. She was tired. So tired. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, and in every other sense of the word. She'd cried so much that the tears refused to flow any longer. And when the tears dried out, so did her hope that she'd ever learn why she had been made to suffer the way she had.

An inpatient chirp jolted Molly out of her own mind, and she looked down to see Toby rubbing himself against her leg in a plea for food. "I'm sorry, honey, let's get you fed." Standing in the fluffy pink dressing gown and slippers she'd had donned for the last three days, she shuffled into the kitchen, followed happily by the ginger feline.

After filling Toby's bowl, Molly lingered in the kitchen for a minute or two, resting her elbows on the counter and listening to her cat purr and chomp noisily at his kibble. Again, her mind drifted off to those crucial three minutes from four days ago.

 _"_ _Well if it's true, then just say it anyway."_

She hated what he did to her, his ability to shatter her with so little effort. Perhaps it was a result of all the days she'd recently spent alone in her own head, but it was as though that catalyst of a phone call had finally convinced Molly to feel fully affected by all the heartache she'd endured over the last few years – her failed engagement to Tom, Mary's passing… Oh, Mary… How she missed Mary. How she wanted desperately to talk to Mary, her best friend and shoulder to cry on, one of only a few who understood Sherlock half as well as herself, and the only person who could possibly offer a logical explanation for his actions. She needed someone to help her hate him, to help her feel angry, indifferent, or unforgiving… anything but lonely. She was _always_ the one holding together the friendship she had with Sherlock. She had no reason to believe he'd pursue her if she suddenly became absent from his life, and maybe that thought scared her enough to put up with the emotional abuse rather than lose him. If she could just force herself to stop putting forth any effort to maintain it… the relationship would crumble, and maybe Molly would finally be free from the hold he had on her.

But she knew she could never do it.

Molly sighed and let out a shuddering breath, a tear she didn't think she had left in her rolling slowly down her cheek. Despite being devastated and furious, she knew she could never hate Sherlock. She loved him deeply, and she suspected she always would. She had resigned herself to that fact years ago. He had opened her up, dragged her heart through the mud, and she still loved him. He'd left her feeling like a used rag, rung out and tossed aside to wrinkle and never fully regain its original shape, and as hard as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she still loved him. Molly had once heard Sherlock refer to sentiment as a "chemical defect found on the losing side," and she was finally beginning to believe it. She expected herself to be stronger, more logical, yet here she was at the mercy of a man who couldn't even comprehend the pain he'd caused her. She had lost, and he'd never even have the capacity to understand why.

And that was what hurt the most.

* * *

 _Sherlock, just… don't overthink it._

John's words rang in Sherlock's ears as he hailed a cab and climbed both into the back seat and back into his own head. The detective fought hard to resist diving into each of the many possible scenarios that could commence once he arrived at Molly's door. After entertaining a particularly nasty hypothetical encounter, ending in the pathologist brandishing a steak knife at him, he decided he'd better focus on something else before he lost his nerve entirely and had the cab bring him back to Baker Street.

It was strange to care about someone else the way he'd admitted to caring about Molly, earnestly and without ulterior motive or thrill seeking. It left him feeling exposed and terrified, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have any idea how the conflict would resolve, assuming it did at all. Objectively Sherlock had been subjected to a number of terrifying scenarios during his career as a consulting detective; it was ironic that something as mundane as a visit to someone else's flat could invoke such panic in him. To his newly awakened sensitive self, the looming conversation was just as high-stakes as any of his most horrifying cases. While he fought to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest, his brain pulled him back into the depths of his addled mind, undoubtedly trying to get the gears in his head to spin until they became rusty and nonfunctional when he actually needed to use them, and he had to yank back hard in the other direction.

As a means of distraction, he decided to busy himself by rehearsing his greeting in the back of the cab as it sped down the busy London street. "Molly," he began, unsure of where the sentence was heading. "You're looking well – no, obviously she won't be looking well," he berated. "Let's see… I assume you have questions – too impersonal." How had he overlooked asking John's advice on starting such a sensitive conversation? "I apologize for my extended absence, but I need to speak with you about what really happened at Sherrinford… Is that too formal?"

"What's that, mister?" The cabbie turned his head ninety degrees, thinking Sherlock had been addressing him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud. "Oh, er," he replied awkwardly, embarrassed at having been caught rambling. "It's nothing." He flashed the rearview mirror a polite but false smile then proceeded to twiddle his thumbs impatiently, now unable to stop the different conversation outcomes from replaying in his head.

Factoring in a buffer for traffic, it was only a seven and a half minute cab ride from his flat to Molly's, leaving him only about four minutes left to figure out his opening sentence. He pulled out his phone and typed out a quick message to John.

 _Bad time? – SH_

His phone pinged a minute later.

 _Not at all, just dealing with a screaming baby and an angry daycare manager. – JW_

Completely missing the sarcasm in the message, Sherlock responded, _Oh, good, because I need advice. – SH_

The phone buzzed again. _With what? And for the record, that was sarcasm, Sherlock. – JW_

Sherlock hesitated, fingers poised and ready to type; perhaps he'd put John through enough for one day. He slipped the phone back into his pocket without replying. Maybe it'd be better if he handled it on his own… All he had to do was not mess up. The thought made him wince. When had a sensitive exchange ever ended well when he dealt with it alone?

As if able to read his mind, John sent a follow-up text, which Sherlock opened eagerly. _Just be honest with her. – JW_

Ping. _And don't overdo it with the deductive show-boating either._ _– JW_

Ok... so, be honest, but not invasive or insulting with the deductions. He had faked caring in the past, but showing that he cared _for real…_

"You all right back there?"

Sherlock didn't realize he'd been picking absentmindedly at a hole on the back of the driver's headrest and stopped immediately, returning his hands to a folded position in his lap. "Yes, my apologies, just… one of those days, you know how it is." He offered another fake smile. The words meant nothing, but he'd heard other people say something similar to a cab driver as a polite way of telling him or her to bugger off.

"It's a girl, innit?"

Sherlock's face must have betrayed him in that instant, because even though his response was a coolly calculated, "not at all," the driver chuckled as they made eye contact in the rearview mirror.

"Meanin' no offense. I just can always tell. You've got that look about ya." The driver's eyes swept briefly up and down Sherlock's seated form, and he grinned knowingly.

Normally Sherlock wouldn't have engaged in conversation any further, but if there was some obvious blunder he was making in his agitated state, he wasn't about to leave it unaddressed before knocking on Molly's door. "H-how do you mean?" The quaver in his voice made him want to hit something.

"Oh, I dunno…" The cabbie shrugged and made a sudden turn that caused his passenger to lurch to one side. "You bein' all dressed up, the fidgetin', the scratched up hands, the foot tapping – " Sherlock stilled the foot that had been hitting the back of the driver's seat – "… not to mention you've been mutterin' to yourself since ya climbed in. Sounds like you're recitin' a damn Shakespeare soliloquy back there."

Sherlock didn't bother arguing that the suit was his part of his normal attire. "So you deduced it?" Had he always been that easy to read?

The cabbie made eye contact in the rearview mirror and shrugged again. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. But don't worry, mate, we've all been there." He let out a hearty guffaw. "Women, eh? They cause us all kinds of grief, but we can't help but love 'em." He chortled again, giving his head a little shake.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, thoroughly unfamiliar with the customs of small talk. That cabbie was observant, but he'd gotten the situation completely backwards. Grief, thy name is Sherlock. He was an expert at giving other people grief, and Molly had put up with the brunt of it for years. How was he supposed to overcome _that_ barrier… _if_ she even opened the door to him? The clock was quickly running out, and Sherlock hadn't outlined his greeting beyond "hello." What was he thinking? "What am I doing?" Sherlock groaned mostly to himself, putting his face in his hands in exasperation.

But the cabbie responded, thinking he was being called upon for more deductions. "Guessin' you're trying to apologize to a girl. What'd you do? If you don't mind my asking." Clearly this was how cabbies entertained themselves on their eight hour shifts. "Fightin', was it?" The driver looked pointedly at Sherlock's cuts and bruises in the mirror.

Sherlock tucked his hands inside his pockets to avoid further scrutiny. That incident at Sherrinford must have broken something in him, because he found himself needing advice and validation pertaining to his newly accepted matters of the heart. He stemmed the flow of words, however, when he remembered he was with a stranger and settled on saying, "Does it matter? She won't forgive me for it." He peered warily up at the front of the cab, still uncomfortable with the driver's interest in his personal life.

"Don't be so sure," the cabbie replied knowingly. "I done all sorts of stuff – cheating, gambling, drinking – and the missus always forgives me. You just got to learn to navigate around those complicated female feelings. 'Course, I think she got so sick of it that she jus' turns a blind eye now." Cue the obnoxious laugh.

Sherlock pursed his lips, tempted to point out scathingly that the cabbie's wife was probably overlooking those character flaws because she was involved in her own love affair, and who could blame her when her husband was such a misogynistic fool? "Hm." Maybe the driver would get the hint and stop talking.

"Ya jus' gotta be upfront about it. Don't let it fester for too long, it'll just make it harder to win her back. I remember this one time when me and the wife went to – "

"Does it count as 'winning her back' if I never 'won' her in the first place?" The words had spilled out before Sherlock could stop them.

"Ahh," the cabbie responded, understanding and mildly amused. "So a declaration of love is what it'll be, eh?" He winked at his passenger.

Sherlock didn't respond, looking embarrassingly down at his lap, out the window, or anywhere else to avoid making eye contact with the driver again. He distinctly felt the back of his neck heat up in embarrassment. He felt foolish, emotions laid bare for everyone to see. His sister had brought out his vulnerable side, and Sherlock wasn't sure how to handle it; a week ago he would have hardly acknowledged the cabbie's presence, let alone let the man school him on romance.

The driver, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to involve himself in someone else's life. "If you want _my_ advice – "

 _I don't._

"Keep if short and simple. No point beatin' 'round the bush." He turned the cab onto Molly's street, and Sherlock ruefully realized he'd squandered his precious few minutes of mind palace time on listening to someone else's rabble just as the car slowed to a halt. "Oh! I'd throw a few rubbers in your pocket, you know, just in case it actually works out for ya." And it just kept getting better!

Sherlock suspected his face was a brilliant shade of red by the time he stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk outside of Molly's building. He paid the grinning cabbie, glad to be done with him, and strode nervously up the front steps, pausing before ringing the doorbell. Everything he wanted to say was jammed into his head unstructured and in no particular order, and the nervousness settling in was preventing him from categorizing his thoughts properly. He hadn't even considered what subtle social cues she may present to him!

After a few minutes of grappling and failing to organize his speech as he might normally do to manipulate a situation in his favor, he sighed and resigned himself to entering the conversation cold. Logic screamed at him to come back later after he'd given himself sufficient time to prepare, but being so close to Molly now, knowing she was just on the other side of the door, pushed the logic out of his mind. All he knew was that he wanted to see her, regardless of the consequences.

Pure emotion ruled Sherlock in that instant, and with a shaking hand he pushed the buzzer.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So… how was that? I know it's not exactly a satisfying story yet, but I needed to set the scene for the next chapter and give you all a peek at what's going on inside Molly's head too. Please leave me a review, and stay tuned for the next (and final) installment! I'm going to be on the road for awhile, so it may take longer for the next chapter to come out, but I'll post it as soon as I can!


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Hello again! As promised, here's the final chapter. I'm sorry again it took so long to update. Between being on the road and having company at my place for the last two weeks, I didn't have much down time or energy to finish this last chapter until a few days ago. Hope you enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Sherlock_.

* * *

 **Don't Overthink**

 **Chapter 3**

* * *

No answer.

Finger still hovering over the buzzer, Sherlock debated whether or not he should go home and formulate a more solid plan before just charging in, but emotion won again in the end. He pushed the bell a second time and pressed his ear to the door when Molly didn't open it, but he couldn't hear much over the blood pounding in his skull. Perhaps the incident had been enough to push her over the edge. Maybe she wanted rid of him for good this time? A sickening lurch churned his stomach. He hadn't considered that, the possibility of her consistent affection dissipating into thin air just as he'd developed the capacity to reciprocate; he'd been too busy worrying about himself in the back of the taxi on the way over. He pressed the bell urgently once more.

Still, no answer.

 _Should he…?_

The fledgling thought had barely taken wing before he pulled a pin out of his wallet and began picking her lock with a rekindled sense of urgency. Practically second nature to him from his stint as a dead man, he had the door cracked in seconds. He swung it open just shy of the point at which he knew it would start squeaking and slipped silently inside, closing it inaudibly behind him.

There was no sign of Molly in the sitting room or kitchen, and he didn't see anyone through her open bedroom door, but Sherlock quickly picked up the sound of running water and froze in his steps. Of all the scenarios he'd played in his head, not one involved a wet Molly coming out of the shower. He'd been so nervous about what to say that his usual attention to detail had failed him.

Any remnants of a plan he'd managed to organize immediately fled his mind. In a panic, Sherlock backed up toward the front door and prepared to make a hasty retreat, sincerely regretting his lack of forethought. What had driven him to such madness? He vowed he'd come back as soon as he let his heart and his mind come to terms with one another, once he could actually formulate something meaningful and convincing enough to –

"REOW!"

Sherlock stopped his backward tiptoe and spun around in a whirl of black and aubergine. In horror, he realized he'd trodden upon Toby's tail. The ginger tabby hissed angrily then leapt backward in fear and pain. His trajectory caused a collision with a floor lamp that promptly fell to the tiles with a deafening crash.

A few seconds later, the sound of running water stopped.

Now in full-blown panic mode, Sherlock floundered, realizing he was thoroughly screwed and without an excuse for breaking into Molly's flat. He heard his heartbeat in his ears again, breathing erratic, feet stumbling over themselves, sweaty palms… Never had he felt so out of his element (stealth in high-stress situations was usually one of his strengths, for God's sake). Then from around the corner tiptoed Molly Hooper, clad in an obscenely pink bathrobe and brandishing a… hair dryer.

"Sherlock?!" Molly's cosmetic implement clattered to the floor as she looked at him, stunned, hair wet and dripping.

The detective struggled to regain his composure, face rapidly reaching scorching temperatures. He looked like a small child who'd been caught hitting a baseball and breaking the neighbor's window. "Ah, Molly…" he began awkwardly, surprised to hear his voice sounded more or less normal despite the ridiculous, mid-escape half-crouch he was in. "Hello." He straightened up abruptly to regain some semblance of control.

The initial fear on Molly's face melted away to reveal an expression of pure anger. "Are you _insane?!_ " But who could blame her, really? "I thought I was being robbed!"

"Oh. Well…" Sherlock said, clearing his throat nervously and fighting the urge to wring his hands. "Not a robber, as you can see," he concluded, unable to stop a sheepish grimace from making its way onto his face.

Molly, on the other hand, looked far from amused. "Normal people don't just break into someone else's house!" Although he had entered her flat uninvited in the past, she didn't need to clarify that under the circumstances, he was the last person she expected to see.

"Of course, I know, just…" The sentence hung heavy in the air. "H-how are you?"

"'How _am_ I?'" Molly parroted in disbelief.

Recovering from shock and the accompanying adrenaline rush, Sherlock sensed Molly's own surprise abating and giving way to feelings of resentment and remorse. He mentally kicked himself. The question had come out like a reflex, a social norm he'd observed and picked up from his interactions with people at large gatherings, but he should've known it was usually only meant as a formality; in retrospect he realized his question sounded horribly insensitive. Ironically his attempts at being genuine were regressing more and more into the manipulative small talk he'd used in the past when he wanted something from Molly; her expression confirmed that for him. It was the exact opposite of how he wanted to sound.

In a desperate defense move, Sherlock's brain started deducing away for any clues that might help him save the conversation. Molly had clearly been crying and tried to ease some of the rawness of her eyes with the shower, but he saw that they were still slightly puffy. _Dehydrated, sleep-deprived, unshaven…_ the list rattled off in his head. "No!" he practically shouted to silence his mind, remembering that John had warned him against it. The shout frightened both of them a little bit. "I mean…" He cleared his throat. "What I _meant_ to say is… w-we should probably talk." That sounded reasonable, right? "About things. Things you probably have questions… about…" he trailed off hopelessly. Well, _that_ was thoroughly botched…

Astute, observant Molly noticed immediately that something about him was… off. Her brow looked less furrowed, anyway, as she listened to him. The fidgeting and stuttering were one thing, but the sudden interest in _talking_ … She raised an eyebrow, looking almost more curious than angry. He didn't do _that_ when he was trying to get something from someone else. She was one of the few who could tell when he was being genuine, and he knew that _she_ knew he was currently drowning in his own nervousness. "Are… are you okay?" she asked hesitantly, voice losing all traces of its former fury. For a moment she put aside whatever feelings she harbored and reappeared as the steadfast, supportive lifeboat who had shared in some of the most critical moments of Sherlock's life.

Sherlock looked at the woman before him in amazement. After all he'd put her through, she was already coming to his aid at the slightest hint of a problem. He'd never known such a beautiful, loyal friend. But there was no time to dwell on his admiration. He owed her an explanation and an apology. "Yes, yes – ah – I'm hoping everything will be fine soon, given time…" That seemed to ease her worry a bit, and she returned to looking annoyed. "Um… may I sit?" He gestured to her sitting room.

Molly looked at him with suspicion as she replied, "Fine."

Still feeling tense and incredibly afraid, Sherlock awkwardly made his way over to the loveseat and parked himself on one of the cushions. Her eyes followed him all the way, and when he looked at her expectantly, she crossed her arms and reluctantly shuffled over. With a flop, she sunk into her armchair, about as far away she could get from him without standing up and backing into one corner of the room.

At least he'd made it over that first hurdle; she hadn't kicked him out, in any case… Not knowing what had come over him, Sherlock patted the seat cushion next to him, hoping she'd accept his invitation and sit beside him instead. Perhaps it was just another one of those formality things people did when they wanted to talk, evoking some sense of security with closeness… or something. He wasn't entirely surprised when she shook her head, narrowing her eyes. He thought he saw her lower lip tremble slightly and knew that the angry face she was wearing was all that blocked the tears from falling.

He certainly hadn't landed himself in an easy situation.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out curtly, but the detective didn't miss the aftertaste of remorse and… something else following her words.

If he was honest, there were a lot of things he was hoping to accomplish by being in her flat: sorting out those pesky feelings, explaining himself and the reason for that horrible phone call, repairing what he could of their damaged friendship for a _start_ … But the one that stuck out most to Sherlock when he found himself on the spot was, "I… I wanted to see you." And he truly did.

Molly looked back at him, her eyes glazed with exhaustion. She didn't even have the energy to look surprised or flattered. _A bad sign_ , Sherlock decided. A sigh escaped her lips. "It's always about what _you_ want, isn't it?" There it was again, that mixture of sadness and something else he couldn't quite place.

Sherlock blanched, though, realizing that his recent missteps probably caused every frustration she'd experienced at his hand to resurface with a vengeance. "If you'd just let me explain – "

Molly stood up, cutting him off with her thinly worn patience. He sensed she was at the brink, unable to handle having _this_ conversation right now, especially with him beating around the bush like some directionless (and socially stunted) water fowl. Her body language screamed that she wanted nothing more than to retreat to her room away from him so she could let her resolve break in private. "Sherlock…" she said, looking pained, like she wanted to say more than she dared. "You don't have to – to put on an act to keep me around. You know that, right? You don't have to… _pretend_ to care." He looked desperately at his despondent pathologist, trying to communicate without words that he wanted so much more than to "keep her around." "We both know that I'll always be here for you, but I need _time_. I know you feel bad about what happened. I get it, but right now I…" Her chin quivered slightly, and she turned her back. "I can't see you right now." Hazel eyes pleaded over her shoulder for him to understand, to spare her feelings just this once. She couldn't do games or tricks, not today.

Sherlock could tell she was replaying the dialogue between them over and over in her head as she stared dejectedly at him. "Molly, wait!" he exclaimed, certain she was on the verge of throwing him out of her flat. "I…" He wasn't sure how to end that sentence, realizing he was at a do-or-die moment in their conversation. He dropped the arm that had unknowingly reached foolishly toward her as Molly glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her closed body language and the empty expression on her face suggested that a misplaced comment could potentially wound her irreparably, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do to her. It all hinged on him saying the right thing. "I… don't want to make this about me." His voice had calmed to a normal volume again, but the urgency was still unmistakably present. "I came here because at the very least I owe you an explanation for what happened during…" He hesitated. "When we last spoke, but I understand if you don't believe me." He expected an interruption part way through but continued when the pathologist said nothing. "If you want me to leave, I'll… I'll respect your wishes and leave."

Molly stared at him for a good long moment, arms folded defiantly to accompany her frown, before her face started to soften when they made eye contact, hazel meeting steely blue. He had her, he realized when she emitted an exhausted, exasperated breath. She flopped back down onto the armchair, looking a little more deflated than the first time she sat down. Sherlock saw immediately how defeated she appeared, how numb she tried to make herself when just below the surface bubbled a cauldron of emotion. He hated knowing that he was the one responsible.

"Explain it how, Sherlock?" The voice that came out sounded hollow and resigned, almost weary enough to not care what the answer was. "How you were okay doing… _that_ to me?" Molly's eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked into his face, feelings of betrayal etched clear as day into her expression. The eye contact was apparently too much for her, however, as she averted her gaze a second later.

Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. Guilt, most probably. That selfless, wonderful woman had never looked more downtrodden, and it was all his fault. Emotion took the wheel again, and without thinking, he scooted over on the couch to get closer to her, enfolding one of her small hands in both of his own. Slightly pink in the face, she tried to pull her hand out of his grasp, but he didn't let go. Her eyes met his stony gaze again, and she realized just how urgently he needed her to listen, even if she didn't want to see him ever again afterwards. "Please," the uncharacteristic utterance sounded desperate. "There are some things I need to say, but if at any point you want me out, I'll go." Molly gulped nervously; she could expertly handle crabby, insensitive, selfish Sherlock, but the detective sensed that the recently acquired softness – and physical contact – was off-putting for her. Nevertheless, she nodded reluctantly for him to continue, though everything else about her screamed at him to leave her alone.

He now needed every ounce of delicacy he possessed to come through for him.

"How to start…" he mumbled, briefly glancing at the floor. "Well, what do you know already?"

Molly sighed, clearly trying to fortify herself for a long, difficult conversation, and Sherlock found himself amazed by her resilience. It had suddenly gotten so easy for him to recognize all the little traits about her he'd previously taken for granted; he now realized just how much he appreciated those things about her. "Mycroft mentioned briefly a long, lost, genius sister…" Molly's voice brought Sherlock back to the present. "And that she put the two of you and John through some sort of… test, or something…" she trailed off. Sherlock could tell that if the story involved anyone else, she would have found it impossible to believe.

The detective clenched his teeth, wondering if it would even be worth telling her the truth if she wouldn't find it credible. But he continued, knowing the outcome – losing her from his life – would be worse if he didn't at least try. So, he began, "Until about five days ago, my sister, Eurus, had been locked away in a high security facility. Sherrinford, it's called. She was sent there when we were all very young, and I had forgotten all about it until... that day." And the whole story came out. He recalled each of Eurus's tests in turn, deliberately leaving the most relevant one for last.

Molly listened attentively through the whole course of the retelling. "I'm so sorry Sherlock," she said sincerely when he got to the part about Redbeard's true identity. All traces of anger had left her at that point. "That must have been just... _awful_ …" She gave his hand a comforting squeeze, studying him. "Really, _are_ you all right?" If he wasn't mistaken, Sherlock sensed an implied _Do you need anything from me?_ at the end of that sentence. She didn't press him to explain himself or the phone call that took place, even going so far as to sound guilty for not considering the stressful time he must've been having. All she cared about was how he felt. How selfless, how typically… _Molly_.

Sherlock assured her that, despite the traumatic situation he'd found himself in and his shaken nerves, he was recovering fine. "I could have predicted how I'd behave in all those scenarios… except for one. I didn't truly appreciate her genius until then." A questioning stare from Molly prompted him to continue. "There was one more test Eurus had for me." He gave her a meaningful look. "In one room she'd set up a screen with a feed into a kitchen, and in the center of the room, there was a coffin… _Your_ kitchen… _your_ coffin, Molly. Eurus told me she'd rigged your flat with explosives, and she gave me three minutes to – She said she was going to blow up your kitchen with you in it if I didn't get you to say…" he trailed off and looked at Molly's face, which had lit up with shock and understanding about the back story of the phone call that had caused so much damage.

There they were, on the precipice and poised to address the issue they'd been dancing around since Sherlock showed up at the flat. Still engaged in the story (or maybe to avoid the discussion altogether), however, Molly responded, "Well obviously… you beat her test then. Since I'm, well, still here?" It came out as more of a question than anything.

Sherlock shook his head grimly. "No… she beat me. There were never any explosives. It was all part of a game Eurus set up to break me. After she hung up the phone on you, I knew I lost you," he said, not realizing his words echoed the very worry harbored in Molly's own mind. "And I... couldn't handle it, I'd never _felt_ anything like it before. I smashed that coffin to bits. I'm so sorry, Molly. I know I'm not the best at handling sensitive situations, but even _I_ know that – "

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted, beginning to get choked up; the conversation was quickly approaching discussion of those three painful words despite her trying to steer them away from it. "It's okay, you don't need to say anymore. I get it. You'll never lose me, I'll always be here for you." Yet, she gently pulled her hand free of his. "And… thank you, for looking out for me." She gave him a watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, still trying to maintain her composure. She sounded… guilty? A choked, dry laugh broke the pause. "I'm sorry for acting so rude earlier, I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself. I think… I'll still need some time, you know? For things to get back to normal between us." Something in her voice, though, told Sherlock things were never going to be normal between them again if he didn't act quickly. Though unsaid, he could tell she still saw herself as a pawn to him, something small he could occasionally use to his advantage.

"Molly, you don't understand," he said hastily, miraculously sensing where her logic was heading. "Eurus observed me – _and_ you – for years, learning all she could, predicting my every move, every reaction… She truly is an intelligent woman. She studied my relationships with others down to the subtlest of signs, and she targeted the people closest to me: Mycroft, John… and you. You've always been an important part of my life, Molly Hooper, but Eurus knew something about me that I didn't realize until it was too late. Not until _days_ after I destroyed that casket. She understood how strongly I try to suppress and deny the complicated emotions I have rather than deal with them, but they're still _there_." Sherlock's heart was pounding out of his chest. "Eurus set off a chain of events that she knew would lead me here, all because she understood the depth of my feelings… for _you_."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Molly responded with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes widened in realization, but she was clearly too wary to ask the confirming question out loud, lest her hopes get dashed yet again. "Sherlock…"

"I… hope you can begin to understand why it took me so long to come to you." He had returned his hands to his lap and folded them. He tried to appear calm but felt overly warm and anxious.

Molly looked into her own lap, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched interminably until, "I _want_ to believe you, but…" The whispered thought trailed off.

She was looking at him with that _something_ in her eyes again, but Sherlock couldn't figure out for the life of him what she was trying to tell him. Maybe he needed some sort of… push. There they were, dancing around some unspoken, writhing ball of feelings, and the serpents clearly needed some prodding. If he could reaffirm how _she_ felt… would that help him understand his own unregistered emotions, voice them, display them, whatever he needed to do to convince her that he…? He needed confirmation, he realized, only growing more nervous as he comprehended the potential disaster that could arise from asking, "Molly, you still love me, don't you?" The tension in the room immediately ascended to unprecedented heights.

The pathologist's eyes widened in response to the sudden invasive – and seemingly unrelated – question. Sherlock saw fear washing over her like a wave as she looked to be reliving that phone call yet again. "Why are you doing this?" she asked despondently, voice low. She'd been able to accept the situation for what it was when Sherlock had put into context the dangerous predicament he thought she'd been in. That was simple, straightforward. Couldn't they just leave it at that and let things settle? She didn't have the energy to be strung along again.

Sherlock sensed her palpable devastation but wouldn't drop it, suddenly finding himself desperate for an answer. At that point she'd stood up and started to exit the room, but Sherlock followed her and caught up with a couple long strides. "Molly… do you?" He reached for her hand again and met with no resistance. Her steps stopped, he gently drew her around to face him, and the gap between them closed as he leaned toward her.

Her expression was one of complete distress as she tried to look anywhere but at him. "Sherlock – "

"Molly, please." He realized he sounded exactly like he had when he'd pleaded Molly so urgently to say those words to him over the phone, but this time for a completely different reason; they both needed it, he realized. "I… I think I need to know." He looked into her eyes, eyes full of fear, sadness, doubt, and… that _thing_ he still couldn't quite place. He reached out a tentative, pale hand, fingers lightly brushing her cheek, eyes pleading her for an answer and begging her to trust him just one more time.

Molly closed her eyes, allowing a tear to finally escape the thin barrier of her resolve. She let out a shuddering breath, looking completely resigned. "Yes…" The word came out barely above a whisper, but Sherlock didn't miss it.

The simple response tied together all the scattered pieces that had been floating around in Sherlock's head, her hesitation, her fear, her doubt, all mixed undeniably with want. She wanted to believe him, to trust him… she wanted _him_ , and for once he could empathize with how it felt to _want_ someone. But she had endured too much to be able to handle another trick. He finally understood the question she'd been asking him so earnestly with her eyes since he met her and forced her to endure various intervals of neglect, and what she'd been currently posing to him as they sat together in her sitting room in the aftermath of that twisted phone call: "What _am_ I to you?" She still didn't know. He'd never once convincingly articulated her importance to him, but on this new journey of self-awareness, he thought he had an answer.

"Eurus knows me better than I know myself," he said. Molly's shining eyes opened to meet his. "She learned years ago how I feel about you, and even if you don't believe me now, I've got the rest of my life to prove it to you."

 _Tell her you love her, you fool,_ John's voice scolded him in his mind. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say it. When Molly confessed it, the words had weight, seven solid years of consistent affection and sacrifice behind them that lent meaning to those words. But when Sherlock said the same words several days ago, the results had been disastrous. With Molly in such a vulnerable state, how would saying them again help now? She needed more than that.

His mind continued screaming at him to tell her how he felt, to voice the emotion that had erupted within him in the last few days, but his arms, as if knowing he could show her much more easily than tell her in his own clumsy way, reacted before his brain had time to process a sentence. Before he knew it, he had Molly's face cupped in his large hands. His thumb grazed her trembling bottom lip. As his own face descended upon hers, he saw her eyes widen and her mouth part slightly in a silent gasp. His eyes slid shut as he pressed their lips together, and he felt her jump in surprise against him as he drew her closer.

Sherlock was by no means an expert, and the kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it was just long enough for Molly's hesitation to melt away as she gave in to years of repressed feelings for the detective. Sherlock angled her head slightly, one hand coming around to bury itself in the damp hair on the back of her head and the other resting on the small of her back. Her slim, bathrobe-clad arms came up to encircle his neck as a soft moan escaped from somewhere in her throat. It was a delicious sound.

Just as soon as it started, it was over, as Sherlock pulled away and opened his eyes in time to see Molly's own eyes fluttering open and staring back at him. They stood, just looking at each other, breathing rate slightly elevated and pulses – as Sherlock was pleased to note – slightly rapid.

Then, to his immense relief, he saw the beginnings of a smile on Molly's face, a face that now looked pink with desire. The smile broke quickly into a grin and blossomed into a choked laugh. The tears were flowing again, and Molly drew back an arm to dry her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe.

Meanwhile, Sherlock looked stricken, unsure of how to interpret the laughing, crying puddle she'd just become in his arms. "Was – did I mess up?" he asked, voice full of genuine concern. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd misinterpreted social cues. His arms became rigid around her; he didn't know whether he should withdraw them or use them to pull her closer.

It didn't help when his question just made Molly break into a full fit of giggles; she had to use both fluffy sleeves to muffle her jubilance. A look at his panicked face caused the mirth to subside enough for her to respond, "No, that wasn't bad at all," she sniffled. "I didn't know you could be so romantic." Sherlock looked a bit miffed by her joke, but she cupped the side of his face in one hand and stroked the skin of his cheek with her thumb as a reassuring gesture. Her smile returned, beautiful and brilliant, and Sherlock felt himself breaking out into a grin as well, amazed by his luck. "But… what happens now?" She still sounded tentative.

The detective frowned, unhappy with himself for still giving her reason to doubt him. He pondered for a moment, distracted by the scent of shampoo radiating off her damp hair. "Well… first I was thinking dinner, if you're interested in that sort of thing." He snugged up the arms he'd circled about her waist.

"'Dinner?'" she echoed in disbelief.

He faltered. Perhaps he'd messed up again, but the last woman he'd been involved with had _constantly_ wanted dinner… He blushed, only now realizing that Irene Adler's definition of "dinner" had been a euphemism for something else entirely. "Molly, forgive me, I've never done this before. I don't know how I'm supposed to act, or if you even _want_ to do this – "

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured between the both of them. "You know, a – uh – relationship, I guess you'd call it."

Molly blinked, flabbergasted; an hour ago she'd been prepared to watch their friendship wash down the drain, and now she found herself not only in Sherlock's arms but _kissing_ him. " _You_?" she sputtered in disbelief. "In a relationship with… _me_?" It came out as a squeak.

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, not used to being questioned. "Unless you don't want to. It's your choice."

Suddenly she grabbed him by the collar of his belstaff and tugged to bring his face down to meet hers. He felt his cheeks flush, surprised by her forwardness. "You'd best start making good on your word. A lifetime, you said, to prove how you feel?" A smile spread slowly on her face, and Sherlock knew he was in the clear.

"It'll be messy," he warned, their noses almost touching. "You know how I am, socially inept, abrasive, blunt… I don't understand _'love'_ the way most people seem – "

Molly cut him off with a soft peck on the lips. "Don't overthink it, Sherlock. All you really need to ask yourself is, do you want to try?"

Sherlock promptly shut his mouth. The whole humbling ordeal had stripped him of his brilliance and the cool calculating logic that sometimes made him seem inhuman. It had reduced him to the man he supposed he always knew he was deep down, a man capable of adoring the woman he now held in his arms. And despite everything he'd put her though, she wanted to _try?_ She wanted to try _with him?_ He'd never felt more alive. Sherlock nodded, not even needing to consult his mind palace for the right answer. "More than anything." He grinned and dipped down to kiss her again, one of many more to come.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Whew! And done! I hope you guys enjoyed the read. This was by far the hardest chapter to write. Sorry it's so much longer - splitting the chapter in two just felt unnecessary, but at the same time I didn't want to rush the conversation too much. Doing so wouldn't have fit in with my attempt to slowly let Sherlock come to terms with his feelings. He's such a fascinating character, but getting in his head and writing from his perspective while trying my best to keep him in character was incredibly difficult. Anyway, thank you again to all those who read and enjoyed the story. Until next time!


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